


if you love me

by aquafizzy10



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Smut, post-before the flood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 02:25:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4986514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquafizzy10/pseuds/aquafizzy10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His hand curls tightly around her own, and he closes his eyes as he speaks. “Clara, I’m trying to tell you that I love you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“If you love me in any way, you’ll come back.”_

* * *

 

The TARDIS parks itself in her hallway this time, and Clara is lucky the doors aren’t facing the wall. Her flat seems small with the blue box crammed inside of it, but real, honest sunlight pours in through the windows. Outside, she can hear cars drive by, and hear the sounds of life that don’t involve running from murderous ghosts.

She steps out of the doors and into her flat, and the coolness of her air conditioning swirls with the less-artificial, icy air from the TARDIS. The heels of her shoes are silent against one of her many rugs, and the familiar smell of _home_ washes over her, causing her chest to tighten up. She missed it, missed the safeness of her regular old life.

Behind her, the doors squeak closed, and she peeks over her shoulder to see the Doctor following her into the kitchen. “Do you want some tea?” she asks, and this is a habit between them, one they have yet to break.

“Yes,” he replies, looking over the framed photos on her wall as she sets the kettle on the stove. Clara digs through her cabinets, and searches for something that will set her nerves at ease. The idea of a warm bath pops into her mind, and she decides on that almost immediately. As soon as the Doctor leaves.

It takes a few minutes, but this is when the Doctor is most patient. He sits at her small kitchen table, and stares at nothing. She knows that he’s thinking and that his mind tends to go over events that had just happened. His quietness here is a little bittersweet. She knows that at some point in his mulling, he’s going to think about all of the people that died. They’re different in that respect, because those people are what her mind goes to first.

Clara joins him at the table, and sets their steaming cups down. They’re both old mugs that she collected from university, everything else sitting dirty in her sink, unattended. They sip at them in silence, the only sounds in the room are his slurping. “What are you thinking about?” she asks to break the tension.

The Doctor doesn’t answer, and sometimes he does that. Sometimes the thoughts that go through his mind are private and his own, and she can understand that, though it makes her heart ache with worry. 

“I’m thinking about what you said,” he says slowly, looking anywhere in the tiny room but her eyes. He says his words with caution, thinking before they come from his mouth. “When you thought I was going to die, you asked me to break the laws of time.”

Clara stares at him, stares at his sad and distanced expression, and swallows. She knows what he’s really saying, knows what lies beneath his words, so thinly veiled that he might have just said it outright. She knows that what she said to him on the phone mirrors what she said to him on that dark day in the volcano, the day Danny died.  

“I did,” she agrees, because there’s no point in denying a thing like that. There’s no lying between them now, and Clara has to take a deep breath to gather her courage. “I can’t lose you, Doctor. You know that.”

“That’s not quite what I mean.”

Her eyebrows pull together, thin wrinkles forming on her forehead in confusion. Her blood feels both hot and cold. “What do you mean, then?”

He looks at her now, looks into her eyes and into her soul. “You said that if I loved you, in any way, I would come back to you.” He leans back in his chair and gestures to the room around them, gestures to the space in between him and her, the expanse of the wooden table. “Well, here I am.”

She thinks she might understand, but he’s breaking their tradition of not talking about it, about this thing that they have. Clara just says, “Oh.”

The intensity of his eyes doesn’t change. They’re the color of ice but hotter than the sun, and she can’t look away, can only blink several times to stop from crying or from smiling because she’s not sure what her face should be doing. “Are you angry with me?” she has to ask.

The Doctor lets out a long sigh. His body sinks into the seat, and his shoulders hunch forward, like he’s allowing himself to show how he feels for just that one moment. He looks like the world is weighing him down, and Clara can’t help but instinctively reach forward and lay her hand on his, the pair of them sitting atop of the table.

His hand curls tightly around her own, and he closes his eyes as he speaks. “No, Clara. I’m not angry with you. I’m trying to tell you that I love you.”

The laugh that comes out of her mouth sounds sad and strained, “You can be in love and angry at the same time.” Moments pass by, and she realizes that there is a difference between _love_ and _in love._ Clara’s heart pounds as she wonders if she made the wrong call.

But the Doctor cracks a small smile, and opens his eyes. “Yes, I suppose you can be.” His hand slips from hers, but when she thinks that he’s pulling away, he presses her hand flat against the table and traces his finger along the lines of her palm. “But no, I’m not angry. Are _you_ angry?” She sees uncertainty on his face. “I don’t have a note card for this.”

This time, her laugh and her smile are genuine. Her heart feels just that bit lighter, and though the air is still thick with things left unsaid, the mood is clearing up. “Maybe a little,” she teases, “even if it wasn’t your idea to frighten me with your ghost.” The skin of her palm tingles, and she watches their hands when she says, “But luckily for me, I’m good about being angry and in love.”

He hums, “Yes, you are very good at that.” His words settle, and Clara feels like they are the last to be said about this topic, at least for now. “What are you going to do now?” he asks suddenly. “What are your plans for tonight?”

“I was going to take a bath and relax,” she admits, “and then watch the telly.” The Doctor straightens in his seat, like he’s getting ready to jump up and run back to the TARDIS, off to another adventure. Clara feels disappointed, his patience usually lasts longer than this.

His leg jiggles under the table, “Do you want me to leave?”

Her eyes are soft, “If you can stay, I would like you to.”

The Doctor watches her, his gaze running over her face, at their joined hands. “You want to relax?”

“Yes, please.”

“Stay here.” He detangles their fingers and rises, quickly pressing his lips to the back of her hand before dropping it. He walks so fast that Clara would have to run to keep up with him, but he’s out of the room before she even thinks about moving from her spot. He shouts out, when he is in another room and his words are muffled, “I’ll be right back!”

Clara takes a gulp of her tea, looks at the clock above her stove, and gives him twenty minutes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor’s hands are slow, hovering for too many seconds before his fingers slide across her jaw to cup her face. His thumb traces the line of her cheek, and his eyes are almost too much to look into, because he’s looking at her without any more walls between them. He’s looking at her like she’s something special, like she’s something to be protected. He’s looking at her like she’s something that’s loved.

The water is loud as it fills the bathtub. Clara runs her fingers through it, swishing the soap around so it bubbles, and decides to turn up the heat. A towel twists around her frame, held up by her free hand, and her cell phone rests on the counter by the sink.

The Doctor left an hour ago, and Clara, though understanding, refuses to wait any longer. Knowing him as well as she does, she’s half-certain that he’ll show up halfway into the next week, and the tension in her shoulders and her back is beginning to hurt.

However, when the water is almost to the top and nearly steaming, the materialization sound of the TARDIS echoes off of her walls. Clara swaps her towel for a robe, still a bit warm, fresh out of the dryer, and meets the Doctor halfway through the main hallway.

If he’s surprised by the way she’s dressed, or the lack of dressing, it doesn’t show on his face. He holds a small, felt bag out in front of him, and drops it into her opened hand when Clara reaches out for it. “Salts,” he says, “for your bath. They’ll help you relax.”

Clara eyes him suspiciously, “Will I get high from these?”

The Doctor frowns, “No.”

She peers at him, and notices his other arm, folded behind his back. “What else have you got?”

He pulls out an old, yellowing book, with the corners curled in and the spine cracked and creased. “Pride and Prejudice,” he says, “first edition.” He swallows, and stands unnaturally still, so obvious that he’s nervous. Clara feels fondness spread through her body, flowing from her heart through her veins.

She had never realized that he could be this way. A bit rude at times, yes, and a little elementary in his romancing, but sweet in a way that she had thought died with him two Christmases ago. She finds, looking at his face, that she wants him in a way she has never had him before. It isn’t the first time, with this face, though the past times she had blamed it on adrenaline highs. Now, she’s got nothing to excuse it with. She wants him, all of him, forever.

Clara shifts her weight, suddenly very aware that she’s not dressed. She takes in the Doctor, takes in his gifts, and takes his hand. “Come read to me,” she says, and pulls him along as she walks backwards.

“I thought you were taking a bath?” he asks, gaze flickering from hers to the salts in the hand not holding his.

“I am.” She pulls him to her bathroom, and lets him stand in the doorway, watching with his face all scrunched up. It’s the look he always gives her when she confuses him. She pours the salts into the bath, and the water turns lavender, the scent of vanilla and flowers immediately rising into the air. “High tech, huh?”

The Doctor clears his throat, “Twenty-eighth century.”

“Very nice.”

She glances at him over her shoulder, and then drops her robe to the floor.

The water is warm on her skin, and it tingles like electricity, shooting from her toes to her calves, spreading as she sinks lower and lower. A delighted sigh escapes her lips, and she asks, eyes closed, “Still standing there watching, Doctor?”

She has no idea what she’s expecting from him. Maybe a splutter, maybe nothing. He’s free to go, and she’s not quite sure if Time Lords can really _be_ seduced. It wasn’t her intention to take him to bed when she invited him to spend the night in, but the idea has wiggled its way into her mind, and if he’s willing, she’s going to try.

Instead of answering, she hears the scuffing of his boots against the poor tiled floor of her bathroom. He brings himself to the edge of the tub, and sits, elbows on the ledge separating her and him. “Where should I start?” he asks, and she only notices how much lower his voice is because she’s looking for it.

“How long do these salts last?”

“Exactly sixty minutes.”

“And how long can you sit still and read to me?”

“Not sure.”

Clara hums, and her voice buzzes like her body does, not a high but certainly not a low, either. “Read me the last three chapters. I already know the beginning so well.”

He flips the pages slowly, looking for the correct spot, and Clara appreciates the view of his long fingers. His voice fills the air, reading old words in an old order, and Clara decides that one chapter will have to do. She finds that _her_ patience is the one that’s wearing thin.

When he reaches the end, and begins the start of a new chapter, Clara cuts him off. “Doctor—stop.”

She’s usually very good at this. She usually has a plan, can usually pull a man in with just a few words and the way she walks, but she finds herself out of practice and extremely impatient. She’s wanted this for years. She won't deny that now. 

He looks up at her, eyebrows raised, and instead of drawing it out, she requests, “Kiss me.”

He shuts the book, and dust puffs up from it. “You’re in the bath,” he points out, and this time his eyes run over her. Not much is visible, between the high waters and the bubbles, but she slides forward and sits up, revealing a brand new and very wet stretch of skin.

“Doctor,” she breathes, turned on and a little bit frustrated, or maybe it’s exasperation, she’s not quite sure. He takes one moment to look at her before he’s tossing his very old, and very valuable, first edition book over his shoulder.

Her hair is dripping wet but her face is still dry, all the way to the bottom of her neck. Her breasts are pressed up against the cold white wall of the tub, hands curled around the edge of it where his elbows once were.

The Doctor’s hands are slow, hovering for too many seconds before his fingers slide across her jaw to cup her face. His thumb traces the line of her cheek, and his eyes are almost too much to look into, because he’s looking at her without any more walls between them. He’s looking at her like she’s something special, like she’s something to be protected. He’s looking at her like she’s something that’s loved.

Was it only a few hours ago that she was using this love to manipulate him into coming back to her?

He’s gentle when he kisses her. Their lips are soft and barely press together, just enough for her to feel his breath, while she holds her own. He pulls away just centimeters, and then presses many more small kisses, before she pushes forward against him and opens her mouth to his.

Clara is the first to use her tongue, but he quickly follows, as if he’s relearning this all over again in this body. Their kisses are slow, but building, and soon Clara finds herself desperate to climb out of the tub and on top of him.

Instead, she lets her head fall back, and he moves his mouth from her lips down her jaw, down her neck, and as low as the barrier between them will allow. This is the first time she makes a noise for him, and he stills against her skin.

She sounds breathless when she speaks, “Everything all right, Doctor?”

He pulls away, but presses his forehead to hers instead of leaving completely, unable to escape her touch. “You have seventeen minutes left for your bath.”

Her mind is slow and almost unable to follow. “Yes?”

“I’d like to take you out of it. Right now.”

“Oh,” she breathes. “Yes, please.” Her words are familiar, echoes of before.

The Doctor moves back and stands up, offering a hand. She rises, and bubbles and water slowly drip from her body. The Doctor drops her hand, but runs his nails gently up her arm, from her elbow to her shoulder, and watches as goosebumps rise on the skin there. The cool air does all sorts of things, and she watches as his eyes take in all of it.

“I’ll let you dry off, and meet you in the bedroom, yeah?” When she doesn’t speak, he asks, “That’s where humans do this, right?”

“Yes, Doctor,” Clara says, and can’t help but grin at him, her whole body feeling exposed and giddy. “I’ll get you some notecards on it, if you’d like.”

He backs out slowly, eyes only leaving her when he’s out the door. “Other direction, Doctor!” Clara shouts out as she steps from the tub, reaching for her long-lost towel. The Doctor appears in the doorway for a split second as he moves into the right direction of her bedroom, rather than back to the kitchen.

Clara nearly brains herself against the sink in her haste to dry off. Out of curiosity, her fingers gently run between her folds, and her clit aches to be touched. She bites her lip and, oh yes, even without the water of the bath, she’s dripping wet.

In the mirror, her face belongs to that of a stranger. She’s not wearing any makeup, but her face is flushed, and the smile she can’t get rid of is so wide. She looks like the pure definition of _alive_.

Not really thinking, she enters her bedroom wrapped in her towel, even though the Doctor’s just seen her, all of her, completely. Her footsteps are totally silent now, and when she’s past the doorway, she can see the Doctor pacing back and forth, in a small series of three to four steps, right next to her bed.

His hair looks different, suddenly much wilder, and she knows then that he’s been pulling on it in the time that they were apart. Clara shuts the door loudly behind her, announcing her presence, and the Doctor stops in his tracks, twisting on his heels to look at her.

“Clara,” he breathes, and rushes to her. She wants to ask him if he’s okay, if this is okay, but he doesn’t give her the spare breath as he presses her against the closed door and kisses her.

She's much shorter than him now, without her boots on, but he gives her all of his attention, so she doesn’t have much to complain about. His kisses are faster here, and his hands are warm and splayed against the side of her face and the skin of her shoulder.

He’s still fully dressed though, save for his shoes which are neatly pushed up against the wall beside the door, and Clara’s hands pull him in closer by the material of his coat. Out of the bathroom and out of the vanilla bath, she can smell him now, and she thinks it’s odd how she prefers the scent of him now compared to when he was younger, with floppier hair and a bow tie.

She pushes his coat off of his shoulders, and it drops to his feet. She unzips his hoodie next, and that comes off too. Clara slips her fingers underneath the hem of his sweater, and _finally_ , it’s the last layer.

Her fingers fumble with his belt, and she breaks the kiss for a moment as she pulls it off, the leather sliding through the belt loops. The second it’s off, before she even begins to unbutton his pants, she cups him through his trousers and watches as his mouth drops open. He’s already hard for her. The sound he makes is almost silent, and Clara is desperate for him to be louder.

Clara drops the towel, and it gathers with all of his shirts. Everything but her hair is dry now, and the Doctor trails his hands down her neck, traces his nail gently along her collar bone, down her middle. His fingers ghost over her nipples, peaked and untouched, before she pushes herself forward into his hands.

His thumbs are slightly calloused and feel like heaven. He kisses her once, twice, before falling to his knees and taking her peaked breasts into her mouth. She’s not sure which breast his lips touch first, directions take too much focus, but his tongue sucks just enough and she’s trembling.

The Doctor takes his time, though, and only trails his mouth away when there are blossoming bruises forming. She won’t be able to wear any low-cut tops for two weeks, not without everyone in the universe knowing what she and the Doctor have done. Are about to do. What she wants him to do.

He kisses down her middle, and hovers low enough for her to feel the heat of his breath beside where she aches to be touched the most. Clara moves impatiently, spreading her legs apart, and the Doctor takes her thighs and lifts her, moving her legs over his shoulders. She slides down on the door a bit, but it gives the best support.

He licks between her, once, avoiding her clit, and she pushes up against his mouth, “Please,” she begs, but it’s a quiet sound. He doesn’t touch her the way she wants, and she has to shout out an ordering demand, “Doctor! Now!”

He chuckles, and she can _feel_ it. But his tongue swirls around her, and she’s taken to another world filled with heat and tingling nerve endings. She thinks she tries to say something, maybe directions, but only moans and embarrassing noises escape her lips.

When she’s close, Clara rocks against his mouth, thighs clamped tight on his head. She’s lucky he has Time Lord biology, with his stronger bones and respiratory bypass system, and she knows that she’s ruined for any other human man she ever meets ever again.

Her orgasm comes across her in waves, heightened by the electronic bath salts. She doesn’t shout, but whimpers instead, voice cracking as she tries to say several things at once.

When the aftershocks are over, the Doctor detangles himself from between her legs and wipes at his mouth. His eyes are dark and hungry, and Clara is still buzzing with arousal. So it’s that kind of night, she realizes, where one orgasm isn’t enough. Her heart pounds with excitement.

Still, instead of moving from off the ground, the Doctor rocks back on his heels and continues to stare up at her. Her choice, he’s silently telling her. Clara pinches his chin in between her thumb and forefinger, bending down to give him a long kiss.

And then she pulls away, moving from her snug spot against the wall, crooking her finger at him. “Come on,” she says, suddenly ten times more confident, and he rises to his feet and trails along behind her, hand reaching out to grab hers. Just like always.

Whirling around, Clara switches their positions, so the Doctor is the one standing in front of her. His legs hit the edge of the bed, and he’s easy to push forward. Clara watches him bounce against her blankets and many pillows, which look like they’re swallowing him alive. She can’t help but laugh as he gathers the bunch of them and tosses them to the floor.

The dark look he shoots her is teasing, but she smiles brightly at him, and moves to crawl across his body. Clara settles across his hips, and he sits up, back against the frame of her bed and hands gripping her thighs. “Hello,” she says.

“Hello.” His voice is soft, and he tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. Clara turns her face and kisses his palm.

“We should probably talk.”

“ _Now_?”

“Just a little. Do we need protection?” She hopes he immediately understands, because a lecture on proper sex education, the same one she gives her students, would be an immediate mood-killer.

“Ah. No.” Clara moves off of him, then, as he begins to explain. “Our biology doesn’t match up. Something about, uh, chromosomes, or— _Clara_.” She has his pants unbuttoned and unzipped, pushed down just enough for her to pull his cock out.

“Keep going,” she pushes, as she takes the head into her mouth. He drips pre-cum like a human man, but he tastes different than anyone she’s had before. Not quite as salty, more tasteless, than anything else.

“And—our immune systems aren’t the same. They—oh—they can’t spread the same diseases—” his voice cuts off suddenly, as he juts up into her mouth. “Sorry,” he apologizes under his breath. He doesn’t resume his explanation, instead squeezing his eyes shut and throwing his head back, panting.

Clara pulls away, and she’s sure she looks quite a sight now, with wet, messy hair and bright red lips. When he makes a small whine, she gives him a choice. “You can choose to cum now, in my mouth… or inside me. What will it be, Doctor?”

The look he gives her now confirms that she is absolutely _evil_ , and he puts his fingers under her chin and tips her head up.

“Good choice,” she murmurs.

His pants, which bunch up at his knees, come all the way off now. His socks stay on, mostly because she doesn’t feel like investing the time in taking them off, but also because he looks a bit silly with them and she loves it.

The Doctor, laid out naked before her, is a thin sight. He watches her watch him, and Clara licks her lips, causing the Doctor to scoff and roll his eyes before reaching out for her. “Come back.”

She does, and straddles him again like she did minutes before. Her hair falls over his face like a curtain when they kiss, but it’s worth it, for the way he gasps into her mouth when she lowers herself on top of him, taking his length inside her.

He’s not a particularly loud creature, she realizes, and experimenting with that will have to wait for another time. Clara controls the pace, though the grip on her hips is absolutely bruising. She goes slowly, taking it in and enjoying the feeling of him inside her. It’s a different kind of build now, for her, less frantic and more fulfilling.

His mouth moves to suck at her neck, biting at that sensitive spot that she likes. She quickens the pace because of it, and he smiles against her throat.

The Doctor’s breath tickles her, but she likes it, because she can feel every sharp huff he makes when she does something right. His nails run down her thighs, and she can tell that he’s close. She’s right there with him.

Clara moves quickly, now, and he comes, just like a human man, as he whispers her name. She rides until he softens inside her, and when she stops, he gathers her face with both hands and kisses the life out of her. Her legs rub together, and she throbs, still. The Doctor presses a small kiss to the corner of her mouth, and gestures to the bed.

She moves backwards and lays against the couple of her pillows still left, legs spread wide open on her sheets. The Doctor uses his fingers this time, long and crooked, and it’s not as filling as his cock but he uses his thumb against her clit and it isn’t long before she’s coming, shouting his name. She’s more sensitive, and her orgasm is even stronger than it was when he used his mouth, easily drawn out of her.

When she finishes, she melts into the bed, and says, breathless, “Wow.”

The Doctor falls beside her, and grins widely, a look reserved for when he stares at her across the TARDIS console. “Wow,” he agrees, looking smug as ever, and Clara tries to push him off the edge of the bed.

“Shut up,” she orders, but this time he doesn’t listen. Typical.

They’re quiet for a few moments, collecting themselves. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks her. He has to be learning for him to think of her like that, think enough to ask. She thinks that, because of him trying, this thing will work out between them. It has the potential to ride on for the rest of her life.

Clara shakes her head, “We’ve done enough talking for today, let’s leave that for tomorrow.” 

“I interrupted your relaxing,” he realizes, and apologizes.

Clara shoves her leg between his, arms wrapping around his middle and head in the crook between his neck and shoulder. “I don’t mind.” She laughs quietly, "I'm plenty more relaxed now than I would have been with a silly bath."

The Doctor runs his fingers up and down the length of her spine. He's silent for a long time, and if he wasn't moving, Clara would think that he's fallen asleep. However, after a while, he says very quietly, over her head, “I love you.”

Clara kisses his neck and murmurs the words back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't judge me.


End file.
